Words Full of Meaning
by sharkgeek
Summary: The repercusions of Santana slapping Finn. She has to speak to Emma about what happened, her feelings & how she is dealing with being outed, Emma suggests a seamingly simple method that Santana finds frustratingly difficult. This is the result. Brittana
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I've been working on this for a while, starting when the 3X06 first aired, but it got longer and longer when Glee didn't actually adress the whole outing/slap/consequences of it all. Any and all mistakes are mine, I have read through this like, five times, but when you know what you are trying to say, it will always make sence, even if it doesn't! So, I hope you injoy, reviews are very much appreciated, even if it's to say you didn't like this! Thanks! :D

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><p>After I slapped Finn, Principle Figgins told me I had to see Ms. Pillsbury to talk through my 'anger management' issues and my 'displaced blame' about everything that happened.<p>

I didn't go for the first week.

I didn't need to talk to her about how out of control and ostracised I felt when Finn outed me in the corridor, how it was like…you know like when you've sat next to an amp or a speaker for too long at a party and the next morning everything is…muffled and delayed? I didn't need to talk to her about how my heart tripped and the air was suddenly suffocating when Finn said that you might not love me back. I didn't need to talk to her about how I felt my entire world collapse and disintegrate around me, blowing away slowly piece by stinking, lying, protective piece, like ash in the breeze when I saw that campaign video. I didn't need to talk to her about how, even though everything was confusing and morphing and erupting around me, there was this huge feeling of release, like I've had a giant fist covering and squeezing my chest for so long, and it finally, slowly let go, finger by finger by finger. I didn't need to talk to her, I had someone better.

I had you.

But Coach Sylvester summoned me into her office, sitting down on the edge of her desk; she looked so…genuine, empathetic, just staring right at me for an entire sixty seconds. It was disconcerting Britt, I couldn't figure her out. I didn't know why I was there.

_You should go and talk to her._

I couldn't meet her gaze, I didn't want to have this conversation, so I just shrugged, crossed my arms over my chest and mumbled _I have Britt._

She sighed, and I saw her body relax, almost defeated, out of the corner of my eye, her cheerleading regulation trainers (hand-crafted by Indonesian sweat-shop children) uncrossed and re-crossed as she shifted.

_No Lopez, you need someone else. She can be a lot, but she can't be your everything. No one can. It's too much. And I don't care enough, whilst Emma is vacuous enough to both care and want to do something about it, so go and talk to her Sandbags. _I didn't know what to do and she hadn't directly dismissed me, so I just continued to sit there, staring at that greyish pink protein shake stain you said was in the shape of a duck. _Now. You're cluttering up my office._

So…so I did.

The first couple of sessions, Ms. Pillsbury just sat and smiled in that over-enthusiastic way of hers. Then she started laying pamphlets out across the table, telling me that 'Being out was being brave', and that 'It gets better'.

Yet I didn't feel brave by being out; I felt manipulated and unprepared and like people were looking at me differently, judging me, assessing me. Disgusted by me.

And it already _was _better. You weren't a confusing kink in my life plan that made me feel so treasured and so wrong all at the same time, you were my guiding cats-eyes in my life plan, you were, _are,_ my girlfriend, officially, unequivocally.

But I didn't know how to explain to her that what happened with Finn was one of the worst things I have ever experienced, but it lead to one of the best things. Plus, I didn't want to. So I said nothing.

She pushed them forwards with just the tips of her perfectly manicured fingers, while my eyes flickered between those stupid brightly coloured, overly optimistic folded pieces of paper and those huge eyes of hers. Her smiled faltered slightly when I didn't reach out to take one, and she pushed them forwards again, leaning over the desk, without letting her blouse touch the surface, until they were perfectly aligned against the edge of the desk on my side, then rested back in her chair and clasped her hands together.

She still didn't say anything, so I sat there until the bell rang counting the squares on the carpet and left.

A week of counting carpet squares, seeing how many objects in the room were the same colour, seeing how long I could hold my body above my chair before my arms shook uncontrollably, like that time we sat on the tumble dryer when we were 6, picking all the nail varnish off my fingers, watching Ms Pillsbury's face fall as she saw every flaky chip settle onto the floor around my feet. And she still didn't say anything, just laid out the pamphlets, pushing them from her side of the desk to within my reach.

The second week of my actually turning up started and I walked in as normal, bag dropped somewhere between the door and the chair. I sat with my spine flush against the straight backed chair, legs crossed underneath me, knees hugging the lip of the hard plastic and arms crossed expecting another hour of silence.

But there were no pamphlets waiting for their pointless, forced journey across the desk, no feminine flowers in their cutesy vases framing the pamphlets, at equal distance from the two top corners of the desk.

Just one new looking blue pen perpendicular to a brand new notepad of lined paper. Your favourite kind, with the perforations. I love watching your face transform when you pull them off for me after I haphazardly rip out the pages. Eyes almost crossed in focused concentration, the tip of your dark pink tongue barely visible between thin lips and the joy increasing with every regimented tearing sound, resulting in a perfectly straight edge.

_I thought we would do something different today Santana. _She paused, waiting for me to say something I suppose, but I was curious, so I just kept staring just to the left of her head, sitting a little straighter. _What you went through was confusing for you, and tough, and it made you tough, having to deny and hide yourself, it…it made you mean, even. I want you to write a letter to those that you think you hurt the most. I want you to apologise for what you think were the most hurtful things you did or said to them._ My eyes snapped to hers, andI felt my feet and legs curl even closer to my body underneath me and my arms pull tighter protectively, my jaw dropped, then instantly closed. Then opened again.

_What? Why?_ Spitting from my mouth like poison from a snake. Much harsher than I intended.

She flinched as if I'd hit her then sank into her chair, seeking comfort, but kept my gaze. _I don't want you to send them, unless you want to. But I think, I think just writing one will help you…move on from the pain and anger of the situation and…and look at what you've gained. The, um, the positives that can be taken from it._

_No freaking way. _And I walked out the door.

I went to your house that night; I needed to feel the comfort you always offer me. Sweet calming words whispered into my hair, fingers pressed into the small of my back, grounding me to you, feet occasionally brushed along my own.

I didn't go the next day. Or the day after. The day after that, I still hadn't gone back, so I could come with you when you picked your sister up from school. Remember she had been crying, 'cos that girl in her class called you stupid and called me a dyke? But she screwed up her eyes to stop the tears, trying to be 'grown-up' in front of us. I saw the hurt and the pain, and a coldness that scared me more than anything, flash across your eyes whilst telling her _Just ignore her. She doesn't know what she's talking about. _

I went back to see Ms. Pillsbury the next Monday, after a Sunday afternoon with everyone at the Lima Bean. You gripped my hand so tightly above the table while the fingers of your other hand traced the hole in my jeans above my knee. I cut that hole after you'd drawn a heart encasing our names on my jeans one day. Before I realised that it wouldn't cut out the part of my own heart that had your initials imprinted, delicate, but indelible, upon it.

And after a weekend of that scary cold look and the hurt in your eyes marching across my memories, guilt and curiosity yelling at me about how much pain my own words may have caused some people.

The flowers in their vases were back, but the pamphlets stayed in those horrible plastic containers behind her and the still new notebook and pen were in the centre of the desk. She smiled a little when I walked through the doorway. But I still couldn't meet her gaze, or write anything. I couldn't even touch the paper.

It took another three days before I could look at her. _If I write this letter, I really don't have to send it? _She shook her head, almost like she thought if she spoke she would shatter my calmness, make me change my mind. _And I can write it to whomever I want to? _She nodded again, her smile becoming just a little larger, hands reaching to rest just above the notepad. _Okay._ I reached across and took the pen, pulling off the lid, twisting the pen in my fingers to push it onto the end. I took a deep breath and slid the notepad from under her hands towards me. _Okay._

I still didn't write anything that day. When I opened the notepad, the blank, clean, white sheet, with its perfect grey horizontal lines and single glaring red vertical line marking the margin was too bare. Too raw. The fullness of the notepad taunting my inability to explain anything.

Two more sessions and that page won.

Then I wrote a single word.

A name.

The letters were spidery and when I put the line through the't' my hand shook making it look like an inept child wrote it. Another reminder of how useless I was, I couldn't even write a stupid letter.

I tore the page out in anger and screwed it up, throwing it vaguely towards the bin. Throwing the notepad back onto the desk, the pen twisting between my fingers, rolling between my palms, popping the lid off the end, pushing it back on, popping, pushing, popping, pushing until that followed the notepad and rolled off the end to rest on the desk.

Ms. Pillsbury took a steadying breath and moved the pen and notepad back to where it was before, while once again I walked out, headed again for your bed, for your arms, needing to feel your fingers run through my hair, your lips forming words for a story that I can't remember but made me smile through my shame, my hurt.

The next day, I re-wrote the name, fluidly, hands steady. But it took all my energy, and I didn't know where to start. I kept touching the pen to the first line underneath. But nothing came to me. So that day, all I wrote was the one name. That, and the dark blue, almost black, dot from repeatedly _**trying**_ to write more.

Then, the next day, I managed to scribble _'I've been asked to write this, as punishment for being honest with everyone.' _But it was a lie and left a sour taste in my mouth, tarnishing the page and my hand instantly returned to that dark, dark dot and drew a straight, definite line through the sentence.

I didn't go the next day, it was Friday, I still had no idea how to start the letter and picking up your sister was a much more appealing activity. Our fingers brushed against each other, occasionally gripping each other, each time it caused you to look at me in wonder when I didn't pull away.

I didn't deserve those looks.

I never have, I still don't. And yet you still look at me like I'm the best thing that ever happened in your life and every new 'couple' thing I instigate or prolong makes that wonder grow a little more.

I don't deserve it Britt-Britt. But I love it. I catalogue and cherish every one. Every single glance, look or stare.

It was Christmas holidays, when we did that TV special, so I didn't have to make the decision about seeing or not seeing Ms Pillsbury. You were amazing, I couldn't take my eyes off you. I was so, so proud, and I held your hand so tightly, sitting as close as I could without actually sitting _**on**_you. But it was soon over and school returned, and I had to go back to Ms. Pillsbury and that stupid taunting page, with a single name and a crossed out sentence.

It was Wednesday, and I had finally figured out in my head what I was going to write, so I tore out the page with the mistake and re-wrote the name, when I suddenly clutched the notepad towards my chest as a thought trickled into my head.

_Do you have to read this Ms. Pillsbury? I mean, can't this stay, just mine?_

She looked up in shock that I had spoken without her prompting me. Her lips pursed and her eyes crept upwards in thought. I don't know why, but knowing she was thinking about her answer made me fell better. _If you decide to send the letter, I will read it. If you don't send the letter, well, I think it would be better if I did read it, but I suppose, I suppose, so long as you don't send it, it can stay only yours. But I think it would be more beneficial if I did read it._

I nodded once, and let the notepad slowly rest back into my lap, before my head bent back down and the words started to flow from the pen, an unstoppable explosion, no, it was more controlled than that, an unstoppable river of words. By the time I had finished and written my name, the words invaded half of the page, and I started to breathe again, even though I don't remember telling myself to stop.

I looked up at Ms. Pillsbury once more, before looking back at the letter I had written. It wasn't quite what she had asked. I still couldn't bring myself to write the letter to the person I hurt the most. The one person that deserved their own letter the most.

Not yet.

But I twisted the pen into the spiral, and pushed it across the desk towards her. She smiled a little, and reached out a tentative hand to turn the notepad around and read the letter. _Don't- _she pulled her hand back as if burnt, but I didn't mean to stop her. _Don't read it out loud. Please. I can't, I don't want to hear it. _She smiled, nodded once and reached her hand out again. She lined up the notepad with the edge of the desk and set the pen next to it, clearing her throat, and brought her eyes to the top of the page.

I couldn't wait until she had finished. I didn't want to see her face, see her disappointment, or for her to tell me it wasn't genuine enough or that it wasn't correct or that she didn't believe what I had written.

I thought about not going back the next day. But I needed to and I was so, so tired of not owning who I was and what I felt that I waltzed into her office, head high, back straight and held her gaze for almost a full 30 seconds before my eyes shifted to the left of her head.

_You chose Kurt. _It wasn't a question, so I just kept looking ahead._ May I ask why? _She had the notepad in front of her, open to my letter with the pen in her hand.

I shrugged. I mean, I knew why I wrote a letter to him, and I knew why I had written his letter first; it was easier to write his letter than the letter that I had tried to write at lest once a day since she told me to do it. I shrugged again, the fingers of my right hand being pulled and twisted by my left, then dropped my eyes to the front of her desk.

Mentally I told myself that I could _**do**_ this. I could explain. I could take over control of my feelings, I could _**own **_them.

_He…I knew how…brave he was to be so…okay…with himself. I envied him and hated him for it. And even after everything I said to him…about him, he never…he never told my secret, even though he knew. _My voice cracked and shook on nearly every word, and I hated it, I felt weak and exposed and cowardly, so I stood up abruptly and marched out of her office, and down to the choir room, sitting in the chair that you sat in last.

The choir room makes me feel weirdly safe, and when no one is there with me, it's so incredibly peaceful, I can think without a constant pressure from looks and whispers and expectations of others. And sitting in the chair you had last occupied just reminded me of the reason I was doing this. It gave me strength.

I walked back into her office the next day, expecting her to have the letter in front of her again wanting to talk more about why I had written what I had, and why Kurt and why not someone else or any number of other questions that had entered my brain over the 24 hours since I left, like some annoying, persistent typist writing a never-ending list. But she didn't. The notepad sitting in the perfect centre of the desk was turned to a fresh page, and the pen was black. She smiled as I sat down, and cleared her throat.

_I get the feeling Santana, that, as honest and necessary as the letter to Kurt was, it wasn't the letter you need to write. I know that you find it difficult to talk through your feelings, that you prefer to act upon them or deflect completely with talk that makes you appear invincible, but I would like to think that you feel safe, in this office at lest, if not with me. _Her hesitancy when talking to me had stopped, and as much as I hate to admit it, I did feel safe enough in that office, with her. Not as safe as when all I can feel is you and all I can smell is you and all I can hear and see is you, your presence makes me feel protected and loved and unique.

_I needed to write to Kurt, because he._ I stopped trying to control all the words just waiting to fall from my mouth._ Because I want to feel as comfortable about…how…I'm…about how I like, no love, girls, as he is about liking boys. I needed to write to Kurt because making fun of him never made me feel better. Ever. It always made me feel worse, and sick and disgusted with myself. _I took a breath, a deep shuddering breath, tears swimming in the space between the skin of my sockets and my eyeballs, but I refused to let them fall. So instead my vision was like looking through a broken, dirty camera lens. _But it's not the letter I need to write. But I hurt this person, more than anyone, by trying to do, be, what I thought I should be. And I have no idea where to start. _Another shuddering breath that made my mouth open wide like a cave, in desperate attempt to deliver air to my lungs and my eyes widen, comically if not for the tears that marched down my cheeks without my permission. Traitors every one.

She didn't react how I expected. No useless words of simpering comfort, no clichéd pep talks, no hugging or reassurances that everything would be okay. She just pushed the notepad firmly across the desk, laid the black pen on top and said, no, ordered _Write._

I looked between her and the notepad once, twice, four times, ten times, blinking away the tears, clearing my vision. Then I stood.

_I'm not running away, or waking out because I can't do this or anything. I just. I don't know what to write. Yet. _I picked up my bag and walked towards the door, slowly, calmly. I reached the cool plastic handle of the door that lead back into the hustle and noise and pressure of the rest of the school and turned my head back towards Ms. Pillsbury. _And anyway, I could never write her letter in a black pen. She'd think I didn't know her, didn't love her at all. _Giving Ms. Pillsbury my best exasperated look. You would have been proud Britt.

I didn't go on Monday, not because I couldn't face it, but because Mr Shue had set in motion his engagement plan or whatever, and he commandeered all our free periods. I wanted to go to her office, and I probably could have gotten out of his quest for the perfect proposal, but the last thing I wanted was the Glee kids knowing I was seeing her. Had been seeing her for weeks now, and actually, almost liked seeing her.

Another morning, another afternoon and I walked back into her office. She had already pushed across the notepad to my side of the desk, along with a collection of different coloured pens. But I pushed the whole lot back towards her as I hovered by my seat, and her face fell.

Disappointment.

_I – I brought my own notepad. _I rushed out, clutching the blue notebook that I bought especially this past weekend, it's got dolphins around the edges, and I put a cat sticker on each corner of the first few pages in preparation. I made sure I bought recycled paper Britt so the monkeys and the birds and the tigers and everything else don't loose their houses. Plus it feels better than normal paper; rougher, grittier, more tangible and less plastic, artificial. _That's okay right? And my own pens. _I held up that silly, fuzzy pink pen with the gummy bear on a spring on top that you bought when we were twelve, but refused to use once you learnt that it didn't actually write in pink, but instead in green. I've kept in a box under my bed for no real reason. Then jutted my hip forward showing two of those stamp pens we use to decorate each others birthday cards with, one orange in the shape of ducks, the other pink in the shape of hard-boiled sweets, poking from my Cherrios jacket pocket.

She looked from my face to the notepad, where I'm sure I was holding so hard even my knuckles had whitened, to my hip and back to the notepad again. Clasp hands. Unclasp. Clasp. Smile. Look up to my face. _Yes Santana. That's perfect. _She whispered it almost reverently.

It took me two more sessions of sitting and looking at the page, tracing the dolphins with my finger and trying to figure out which cat sticker looked more like Charity (God rest her soul) and which one looked more like Lord Tubbington, but I had finally written one of the most important words I ever learnt to write; ever learnt to _**understand**_.

I wrote your name.

A heart hovering over the 'i' and the line crossing the 't's completely separate just how you like them, so each one looked like an angel protector's sword. It used to be a pirates sword, until we found out that they were curved and called cutlasses, then you found my mothers picture of the Archangel Michael and I explained how he protected his people and his church and that my mother prayed to him when she needed strength and guidance the most. Ever since you wanted angel protector's sword 't's.

The last long loop on the 'y' and I got stuck.

Again.

One more session, and I had two lines. It took me the whole hour, and I felt like I had undergone an emotional marathon, even though those lines weren't important.

They weren't the _**point**_ of this.

But because they were getting me to the point, every single letter took a little part of me with it, a little part of you through your pen, transferred onto this flimsy blue piece of recycled tree.

Another session and here I am. I don't know why I had to start this letter explaining why I wrote it in the first place. I think because I know that your curiosity about these sessions is killing you, but you also know that I don't want to talk about it and so you don't ask. I think because I want you to know everything, however inconsequential. I think because to write the next part, I needed to write the beginning, to take you on my journey.

So, Brittany.

My Brittany.

My Britt-Britt.

I've switched pens. I hope you don't mind that I borrowed your favourite pen that writes in both pale blue and pink with the same nib, _bubblegum and strawberry ice cream _you whispered with your nose crinkled in wonder the first time you used it. Or think that you've lost it. But somehow, writing this using your pen, your favourite pen. It makes the words easier to write. It makes them mean more to me. It makes them hurt so much more. It makes me feel that your hand is resting on top of mine, fingers weaved together, helping me write this; you the strong, protective pink line, me the blue that obediently, willingly follows.

This is the hard part Britt. I still don't know where to begin. There is so much hurt to apologise for. For so long I refused to believe that I even **was**hurting you. But I did. So much and so often, and always for the same reasons.

Selfishness.

Fear.

Loathing.

Love.

Acceptance.

I am so, so sorry Brittany.

I'm sorry that I made you feel like what we had was nothing more than a release when I couldn't get to Puck or another popular guy.

I'm sorry that I confused you, as everything I did, every tender caress, every caring look, every sexual connection screamed at you that I loved you, but every word I spoke contradicted me.

I'm sorry that I caused you so much heartache, that I continued to break your heart, tearing small or large pieces off of it, over and over and over again by being too selfish, too afraid, too concerned by what people would think and by what people wanted me to be. By refusing to be me.

I'm sorry that I couldn't be supportive of you when you were with Artie, even though you have been nothing but supportive of me, for as long as I can remember.

I'm sorry that even when I realised what I felt, I still couldn't be brave enough to be with you, proudly, that I still had to hide us from the world. And so I broke your heart again, even whilst you smiled.

I'm sorry for every mean word I ever said to you, for every action that hurt you, for every scar on your heart caused by me.

I'm sorry that you had to fall in love with someone who didn't know what to do with it or how to treat you properly for so long.

I'm sorry.

And I'm so, so grateful.

Without you, I wouldn't have been strong enough to own who I am.

Without you, I wouldn't feel loved or special or valuable.

Without you, Santana Lopez would be everything people thinks she is. Cold. Mean. Bitter. A slut. Worthless. Heartless. Less than.

With you, I'm loved.

With you I _**can**_ love.

With you, I can be proud of being different.

With you, I can say the words _I'm gay _without flinching or feeling wrong or disgusted or scared.

With you, I can be brave and do difficult things like write this letter, like telling my parents that I love you, like returning to Ms Pillsbury's office and explaining how I feel to her, like letting her read this letter. I kind of have to if I want to give this to you.

And I do.

I _**need**_ to give this to you. I could never say all these things.

I would feel so horrible and get so lost and confused in trying to explain everything that it wouldn't make any sense.

With you, everything comes into sharp focus and tingling touch and potent scents.

With you, Santana Lopez is Brittany S. Pierce's girlfriend. And it's the best feeling in the world.

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><p>AN: Also, although I realise there are better/other saints I could have used, I used Archangel Micheal, because my mum prays to him when she wants ultimate guidance. I hope this was injoyable! Again reviews would be much much much appreciated! :D


	2. Author's Note

Author's note: So, I've had some requests via PM and reviews about writing more chapters to my stories. I haven't really planned any, so I probably won't as I'm rubbish at coming up with new ideas or extending the ideas I do have.

So. If anyone wants to sent me an idea via review or PM that they would like me to write, I will try my best. I write Santana's POV the best…no one will probably reply to this, but the option is there if anyone wants

I am however CRAZY busy, I'm in the middle of my A2's and sorting everything out for university this September, so I won't necessarily write very prolifically, but like I said, if you have an idea that you want me to write, let me know and I will try my best!

Like I said, I'm sure no one will reply, but you never know :D


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